


Yes or No

by AmStramGram



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Parallel Universes, Shameless Big Bang, cheating (mentioned), rape/non-con (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmStramGram/pseuds/AmStramGram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But there’s also this other ten percent probability that it’s reality, that it’s actually happening, like some kind of glitch in the matrix. I guess I just gotta roll with it. You know… Enjoy the opportunity of discovering what my life would have been outside of Chicago. ” He throws a rapid look at Mickey, a lopsided smile on his face. “It’s probably gonna be a very interesting weekend."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes or No

**Author's Note:**

> My participation for the Shameless Big Bang, round 5.
> 
> Thank you so much to [seekintroubles](http://noelfuckmenowfisher.tumblr.com), who has made an amazing [edit](http://am-stram-gram.tumblr.com/post/146038511000/yes-or-no-but-theres-also-this-other-ten) for this story! *.*
> 
> \---
> 
> I couldn't finish this fic on time to get it beta'ed, so I apologize for any mistakes you'll find. I tried my best, but if you think that there's too many of them, please please tell me and I'll find a beta!
> 
> This is the first part. The second part will be up tomorrow. EDIT: I'm sick since Friday morning with a terrible headache that gets worse if I look at my computer screen for more than two minutes, so I won't be able to post the second part until I get better, which I hope will be sometime this week... I'm really sorry for the wait! <3
> 
> One last thing: for this fic, season 6 doesn't exist.
> 
> Enjoy!<3

**PART 1**

 

You know that moment, when you have to choose between two options? Of course you do, everybody does. It happens all the time, always, everywhere. Tea or coffee? Now or tomorrow? Blue or green? Yes or no?

Everything is a matter of choice, whether you know it or not, and sometimes what you choose can even change your entire future. Those are the big decisions you’re not even conscious of half the time. 

You could have taken the coffee but after a moment of hesitation, you went for the tea, because today they have the mint one you like. You add sugar, go sit near the window, wait for the water to take the perfect golden tint and sip it carefully because it’s very hot. When you’re done, you get up, go bring the cup and plate on the dirty dish shelve and leave the coffee shop. You realize it took you longer than usual because you waited for the tea to infuse, and you run to catch the bus that leaves right under your nose. Shit. You’ll have to take the next one, but that’s okay actually, it’s there already, you’ll be on time for your first client of the day. All is well. 

But if you had taken the coffee like you do every other morning because you like the taste of it, you would have left the coffee shop three minutes earlier and gotten the first bus. You would have sit next to this person reading your favorite book, and two years later, you both would have gotten married. You didn’t meet this person, because you took the tea today. You’ll marry somebody else you’ll meet in seven months and love just as much. You see? Tea or coffee, an everyday decision determining your future, and you don’t even know it. 

Some of those big choices, though, are as obvious as a nose in the middle of a face. The yes or no one, for example. Yes, I’ll take you as my wife and cherish you forever. No, I won’t, fuck you. That’s a decision Mickey Mikovich had to make, and he knew, thinking about both options, that it would have a crazy impact on his future. 

Some people think that for each decision a person has to make, there are as many parallel universes getting created as the number of possible options. In every parallel universe, the person chose a different option, and their life goes on based on this precise choice. According to this theory, there’s a universe where you married the coffee person, and a universe where you married the tea person. And an infinite number of other universes for the infinite amount of options that got presented to you and everyone else since the beginning of decision making.

 

So, according to this theory again, there’s a universe where Mickey Milkovich married Svetlana Protkova, and a universe where he didn’t marry her. You can only imagine how different his life would be, ten years down the road. It’s amazing how sometimes, someone’s entire world can depend on two tiny words. The tiniest, most common words. 

 

 

**Eugene, OR**

 

Mickey’s walking home from work when his phone rings, and he takes it out to see who that can be. Unknown number. He almost doesn’t answer, because the probability that it’s about work is way too big and he fucking left ten minutes ago, they really should learn to leave him alone on a Friday night. But after a moment of hesitation, his finger hovering between the green and the red button, he sighs and decides to take it. You never know.

“Yeah?”

“Agent Keller from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s office calling. Is this Mickey Milkovich?”

Mickey stops and frowns. Why the fuck is some police station from Florida calling him on his cell phone?

“Yes it’s me.”

“Is you partner’s name Ian Gallagher?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Mr Gallagher got arrested this afternoon.”  
Mickey’s jaw drops, and he’s too stunned to say anything. Ian got arrested? And why the fuck are they calling from _Jacksonville_?

“He was found harassing people in the street. When an agent arrived he started screaming nonsense so he had to restrain him.”

“What— but— where did you say you’re calling from?!”

From all the questions he has right now, that’s the one that bothers him the most. 

“Jacksonville Sheriff’s office.”

“ _Jacksonville_ Jacksonville? Like— in Florida?”

“Yes. Like I said—”

“Wait, wait. You found Ian. In the street. In the state of fucking _Florida_.” 

“Well… yes…”

Mickey wipes his free hand over his mouth. It must be some kind of joke. A prank. He just can’t believe Ian’s at the very other side of the United States right now. He wasn’t home this morning when Mickey woke up, but Ian sometimes leaves very early so he didn’t think much of it. He would have noticed if Ian left in the middle of the night though, right? And Ian would have told him. It’s nonsense. It’s just… it can’t be right.

“Has Mr Gallagher a history of mental illness?”

That snaps Mickey out of it. “Yeah, he’s… he’s bipolar. But he’s fine. He was… he was on a high lately but nothing bad, his meds still work, he’s fine. He’s got it under control.”

“He was in the middle of a severe psychotic episode, sir. According to the office’s doctor, he’s _not_ fine, which is why we’re keeping him here, for his own security and the security of the citizen. You’ll have to come and get him.”

“Can’t you just release him? He’s a fucking grown up, I’m sure he’ll find his way back home.”

“We have to release him to somebody legally responsible for him in cases of crisis like this one, and it appears to be you. Unless you personally come and get him, he’s staying in Florida and on Monday he’ll be transferred in a medical center until a psychiatrist sees that he’s apt to fly back to Oregon safely on his own.”

“For fuck’s sake. Don’t put him in a medical center.”

“If you can be here before Sunday night, we won’t have to.”

“Yeah, of course I’ll be there before Sunday night. I’ll take the first flight I can get.”

“Alright.”

“Can’t you at least transfer him to some better place until then? The ER or something? He doesn’t have to spend a night in jail.”

“Not until we can be sure his behavior won’t be any danger to himself or others, which the doctor will have to assess tomorrow morning.”

“That’s fucking… that’s insane. Shit. Alright. Will I have to, uh, pay for something? Bail him out?”

“No, sir.”

Mickey silently nods. If there’s no bail, it means Ian hasn’t done something illegal and they indeed keep him for his safety. A prison cell is certainly not the best place for that, it’s awfully unfitting, but maybe not as bad for him as the street during a psychotic episode might be, not until Mickey gets there. At least now they know where he is and what he does.

“How is he now? Has he calmed down?”

“We had to sedate him, sir.”

“You _what_?”

“He was starting to get violent towards the policemen who approached him, and wouldn’t cooperate.”

“You don’t sedate people because they don’t want to cooperate, you pricks. Why don’t you shoot him while you’re at it?”

“Sir, the doctor—”

“Don’t fucking touch him again, you hear me?”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line.

“I’ll come for him as soon as I can. Don’t fucking give him anything again that’s not proper food or water or I’ll file a fucking lawsuit against the entire Jacksonville police department, and I can assure you I’ll win.”

There’s another silence, then Mickey hears some shuffle and another voice, a female voice, break through the phone. She’s more assured than the kid Mickey talked to, so he assumes she must be higher ranked or more experienced. 

“Hello, sir, this is Officer Glass speaking. Is there a problem here?”

“Of fucking course there’s a fucking problem. Who authorized you to sedate Ian?!”

“Sir, we had to in order to assure the safety of—”

“Yeah, yeah, the safety of the citizen and the cops and himself, I know the drill. He’s not fucking dangerous. He had a psychotic episode, you don’t have to sedate him to calm him down, you just… you talk to him. Don’t they teach you to deal with that kind of stuff in this stupid cop school of yours?!”

“We had to do it, sir, and it was made here with the approval of the doctor. Now, he’s calmed—”

“Yeah, because you _sedated him_ , dammit.”

“And he’s not psychotic anymore. He’s currently sleeping.”

“In your amazing jail cell, how wonderful, what a way to deal with mentally ill people.”

“On a proper mattress, in a heated room, with an actual meal waiting for him as soon as he wakes up. He won’t go God knows where doing God knows what that could harm him. He’s under the best of care of a doctor trained to deal with those kind of situations and I can assure you that seeing how he was when we found him in the street, he’s better in than out.”

Mickey wipes a hand on his face. This is fucking insane. 

“Is he alone? In his cell, is he alone?”

“Yes.”

He sighs.

“When he wakes up, I want to talk to him. I want him to call. Get him to leave a message if I’m in the plane.”

“He’ll call you if he wants to call you and has a good reason to.”

Mickey’s wants to hang up on her _so bad_.

“I’ll be there tomorrow. Don’t lock anyone else in his cell with him. Don’t fucking sedate him anymore, Jesus.”

And without listening to her reply, he hangs up and throws his phone into his coat pocket. He stays on the sidewalk for a few seconds, staring at nothing, mind going one hundred miles a minutes. Ian’s in Florida. Ian’s in jail. And Ian’s not fine, not stable at all, and Mickey has no idea how he’ll be able to deal with that.

 

 

**Chicago, IL**

 

The ringing phone wakes Ian up like someone screaming right next to his ear. He groans, turns his head to bury it deeper in the angle between the cushion and the back of the couch, and tries to cover his ears with his arms. It doesn’t work, the phone shrieks just as loud as before. He should really consider changing the ring tone. Mickey keeps telling him that, and yeah, maybe he’s right, this one is just plain torture.

At the thought of Mickey, Ian turns around again and takes a look at his screen. The phone is laying on the coffee table and he has to stretch his neck to be able to see who’s calling. It’s too fucking early for a casual Saturday morning phone call and Mick’s in another state right now, maybe that’s him calling with a problem or something. 

It’s not his number, though. It’s an unknown number, and Ian hesitates again before finally reaching out and taking it. He presses answer right when the call’s about to transfer to voice mail.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his free fingers.

“Ian?”

That’s definitely Mickey, and he doesn’t seem happy at all. Ian frowns and summons all his energy to sit down and listen.

“Something wrong?”

“Listen, I don’t have… I’m calling from Jacksonville’s police station.”

Ian blinks. “Say that again?”

“They arrested me. Don’t freak out, alright? It’s nothing bad, I swear. Just… kinda talked back to a police officer… I don’t have time to explain it all right now, but they’re keeping me in here until Monday morning. Unless someone bails me out before that.”

“Fuck. Is that a joke?”

He hears Mickey sigh on the end of the line, impatient. “That’s not a fucking joke, Ian. You have to come or send someone with the money, and as soon as possible because there’s no way I’m rotting in jail for three days.”

“I have to drive all the way down to Jacksonville to pay for your goddamn stupid ass? How fucking much they asking?”

“You can take a plane, it’ll be faster.”

“Right, like I won’t have to empty our squirrel fund to pay for the bail only, not to mention the cost of hiring a fucking attorney or you getting back there for the proceedings and whatever they’ll ask next. The bail, how much?”

“Five hundred.”

“ _Jesus_.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I fucking hope so, you asshole.”

That could be worse though, and in a way it’s reassuring because it means that what Mickey got arrested for wasn’t that bad, but it’s still a whole fucking lot of money and they can’t really afford it, not with the rent and the kid and the meds. Mickey sighs again and Ian closes his eyes, trying not to hate him too much. It doesn’t work.

“You’ll still have to pay for gas and a motel, I’m not sure it’s gonna be much cheaper than the plane—”

“Yeah well, maybe I’ll sleep in the car, and maybe I’ll take some weird hitch-hikers along the way and ask them to pay for the gas.”

“Don’t do that.” 

“I won’t do that just like you didn’t get arrested and won’t make us eat rice for the next three months.”  
There’s a silence and Ian knows that Mickey’s probably chewing on his lower lip. He does that when he feels bad about something. _Oh you fucking better be_. “It’s gonna take you two days getting here, I can’t stay here for two days, come on.”

“Great, maybe it’ll take me so long that they’ll release you before I arrive. Maybe we’ll even get to keep our five hundreds and get Yevgeny this purple bike he’s been asking for for months.”

“Ian…”

“What, you see another solution, Mickey? Free plane tickets? Or maybe you have a stack of money hidden somewhere in the house I don’t know about? Huh?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You’ll wait the time it takes, then. Maybe use it to think about not getting arrested next time?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ian sighs again. Mickey sounds miserable now, and that somehow helps him down. He’s not happier about the money than Ian is, and he’s certainly in a worse position right now. After all, he’s the one who’s gonna have to spend one or two nights in a police station cell, not fun at all, even worse than that if they transfer him to an actual jail in the meantime. Jail is Mickey’s nightmare. Driving all the way down to Florida won’t be fun, but at least Ian will be alone, able to breathe fresh air, eat what he wants and sleep in a proper room. 

“Alright,” he says in a quieter tone. “I’ll leave in a couple of hours then, time to wake up the kid and drop him at Svetlana’s. I’ll do as fast as I can.”

Mickey lets out a relieved breath. “I’m in Jacksonville Sheriff’s office.”

“Okay. Won’t they transfer you to jail until you get released?”

“Don’t think so. Or maybe tomorrow night if you can’t bail me out by then.”

“Alright, I’ll do what I can. Hang in there, Mick.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” After a beat, he adds, “Love you.”

Ian smiles but tries to harden his voice a little. “I’m still fucking pissed, alright?”

“I know. I have to hang up now. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

He takes his phone off his ear but quickly puts it back there.

“Wait, wait! Mickey?”

“What?”

“I love you too.”

Mickey huffs a laugh. “Please try to remember that when you arrive here, I could really use you not murdering me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

They finally hang up and Ian throws his phone on the coffee table, dropping back on the coach with a tortured moan. A road trip to Florida with two third of this year’s savings — what an awesome plan for the week-end.

 

**Chicago, IL**

 

When Mickey realizes someone stole his wallet, he nearly breaks into tears. He hasn’t closed an eye since this phone call, about thirteen hours ago (well, actually since Friday morning, seven o’clock). He had to drive all the way to Portland’s airport because fucking Eugene’s doesn’t schedule a take-off after grandma goes to sleep, tried to stay calm in front of the dumb employee who couldn’t hurry up for the life of her and almost made him miss the last flight of the day. Then he had to sit next to a woman with two wailing toddlers in his first flight, waited three hours in Denver with nothing else to do than look at a blank wall, and now he’s lost into O’Hare. All this while thinking about a sedated Ian alone in a fucking cell. 

And now, on his way to the plane that’s finally going to take him to Jacksonville, he searches for his wallet and doesn’t find it. It was in his coat, he’s sure of it. Absolutely sure. And the plane ticket was in it, along with his credit card, fifty bucks and all his hope in humanity.

No ticket to get into the plane and no credit card to buy a new one. Ian’s waiting for him one thousand miles away, and he has no way to go to him. 

To make things worse, he’s in Chicago, where he hasn’t set a foot since he left— when was that? About ten years ago? Yeah, at least. He doesn’t like being here, doesn’t want to go into the city to ask for help, because he left it behind. He left Chicago behind and wants it to stay there. _Fuck_. He’s one unlucky guy, right? Stuck into the city he wants to see the less. Partner in need far away, and he can’t move. That’s one hell of a joke, you know. He had a shitty life in here for eighteen years, then left and everything got better, everything was fine, and the minute he comes back it all gets bad again. He can feel her, the city, sneering, _Hey Mick, long time no see, remember me?_

Remember you just fine, you big fucking ugly place. 

He reaches the nearest wall and slides onto the floor, sitting his back against the white and cold surface, eyes closed. He’s so tired. So fucking tired.

**

Ian’s coming back from a pissed off Svetlana when he decides to give it a try and take a beeline to O’Hare. A Saturday morning, last minute, maybe the planes won’t be as expensive as he thought, right? Maybe Mickey’s right, maybe it’s even cheaper to take a plane than to pay for the gas and the motel for the night. He doesn’t know, actually, he’s never gotten on a plane, never stepped into an airport, doesn’t know a flying fuck about prices and when it’s cheaper and stuff. He saw in movies that you can buy your ticket right before you go, at the ticket office like you were taking a bus or a train. People do it all the time, like it was nothing, casual, and affordable for all. It seems as simple as that, in the movies. But it’s real life and Ian knows pretty well that in his world, real life doesn’t look like Hollywood at all.

He’s fixing his limit on one hundred dollars for a one way ticket. If it’s more, he’ll get back to his car and Mickey will have to wait. If it’s less, he’ll fly on a plane for the first time ever. He half wishes it’s going to be more, because he’s not sure he’ll like being suspended 35 000 feet over the ground. He quickly thinks about the helicopter he tried to steal ten years ago, but that’s a memory he doesn’t really like so he pushes it away, concentrating instead on where to go.

The place is huge. It’s like a gigantic hall, with signs everywhere — to many signs — and so many people it’s like everyone in Chicago wants to fly away today. He looks around, a bit lost, until he notices the sign with a plane taking off, which could mean it’s where people wanting to leave have to go. So he does, and quickly sees the many lines full of waiting travelers with their bags and suitcases. He asks the last person of a line if it’s where he has to go to buy a ticket. It’s not, she tells him, indicating the right direction. The line he has to go to is much smaller than the other ones. That’s a start.

Unfortunately, he learns that a ticket for today’s flights to Jacksonville costs about three hundred bucks. Well, now he knows. In the movies everybody’s fucking rich and that’s disgusting. 

He took a dozen steps towards the exit of the hall when he ears something that makes him stop. It’s Mickey. No, it’s Mickey’s voice. Someone sounding like him, but so much so that’s its disturbing and if Ian didn’t know where his boyfriend was, he’d think it’s him. He turns around and searches amongst the travelers who this voice belongs to. He’s curious to see what body Mickey’s voice could also belong to, if he looks like him, if he’s his age. 

But when he spots the guy, or the guy’s back, he sees him. He sees _him_. Mickey. Actual fucking Mickey. There, in this airport, two lines down the one Ian’s just left, talking to a scowling employee with huge movements of the hands.

Naah. That’s not him. Ian smiles to himself — he’s so ridiculous. Because some bloke has his voice and his hair color and his size and stands exactly like him, doesn’t mean it’s him. Ian doesn’t even see his face, but he’d bet the bail money that it’s totally different. Plus, the guy’s hair are shorter and those clothes definitely don’t belong to Mick. They’re neat, they fit pretty nicely, they look new. That’s not a kind of coat Mickey would wear, not ever, not in this life or any other. But it’s still fascinating, the way he holds his head, the way his feet are slightly open, the way he talks. There’s something in his accent, something Ian can’t quite make out with everybody else talking around him, something a tiny bit different. But the words, the energy, his gestures like he’d be unable to talk without his hands. This is amazing, how much this stranger could be Mickey, another Mickey. Another version of him. 

Ian watches him argue with the equally angry-looking employee (something about a lost ticket?) for a few seconds, then the curiosity gets the best of him and he slowly approaches the ticket offices again to be able to see his profile, his face, through the many people walking and standing between them.

And that must be the light. Or his imagination tricking him. Or one hell of a coincidence, some amazing doppelganger. Or maybe Ian’s hallucinating. Maybe he’s tired and doesn’t see straight, or Mickey’s so present in his mind with this arrest that he’s seeing him everywhere. Because that’s not just his voice, his body, his hands, his feet, that’s also his nose and mouth and eyebrows and chin and Ian can’t see it from here but he’s pretty sure the eyes will be his too. That’s Mickey. That’s exactly him. 

Dazzled, Ian steps closer, around a group of excited travelers, and stops about seven feet away. It’s even more shocking from here, and the resemblance is so perfect that Ian starts thinking that, maybe, it’s Mickey. Maybe he cut his hair and bought new clothes in Florida and it would make sense if it wasn’t for the fact that there’s no way he managed to get released, jump into a plane and land here in the two hours separating right now and the phone call that woke Ian up this morning. 

Ian watches him wipe a hand on his face ( _Mickey_ ) in an exhausted and desperate and very nervous manner. The employee tells him that she’s sorry, she can’t do anything, he’ll have to buy a new ticket. He throws her another angry glare, then turns around and begins walking in the opposite direction from where Ian stands. He walks like Mickey. Shit, that’s definitely him, but what is he doing here? It’s impossible he was in this police station this morning. But then, why would he lie about that? Why on Earth did he ask Ian to take all their savings and go to Florida? This doesn’t make any sense.

A doubt suddenly creeps into Ian’s mind while he starts following him from a safe distance. What if Mickey wants Ian to be away? Maybe he wants the apartment without Ian for a few days, and it’s the only way he’d leave the state for a long time. Maybe Mickey— maybe he’s cheating, and wants to invite his lover into their home, and—

“Ian?”

He stops short, closer to Mickey than he realized. Lost in thoughts, he didn’t notice that Mickey had stopped walking, turned around and seen him too. Ian takes another step closer, but Mickey steps back, frowning, apparently confused. Ian straightens and tries to steady his voice.

“What are you doing here?”

Mickey doesn’t answer. He keeps his eyes on him, looking at him all over like he’s trying to understand some kind of puzzle, mouth slightly open, brows furrowed. 

“Is that you?” he finally asks, and there it is again, that thing in his voice, in his accent, that little thing that Ian has never heard before. 

He takes a deep breath and, ignoring the question, snaps: “Are you cheating on me, Mickey?”

At that, Mickey’s demeanor changes completely. To deeply confused, he becomes almost terrified, eyes widening, mouth closing in a thin line, all color draining from his cheeks. But it only lasts a couple of seconds, until his brows furrow again and he shakes his head.

“You’re not Ian,” he says like he was stating a moderately unpleasant fact.

Well, that’s a new one. “What?” he asks, confused. 

“You’re not Ian,” Mickey repeats. He shakes his head again and takes another step back, eyes still fixed on him, never looking away.

“Of course I am,” Ian frowns. Is this some kind of tactics, to make him forget about the fact that he’s supposed to be four states away?

Mickey closes his eyes and shakes his head, fingers coming up to rub at his temples. Ian can see him breathe deeply. He looks absolutely exhausted. After a while, Mickey raises his head back and locks his eyes on Ian again. 

“You don’t— what— fuck. What have you done to your hair?” he asks with a jerk of his chin towards Ian’s face. 

Ian spontaneously runs a hand through his red locks. They’re getting long, he should cut them. And he didn’t take the time to gel them straight, thinking that he’d be in his car all day anyway, so why bother. But there’s nothing special about them, Mickey always sees him without gel and he didn’t do anything else unusual. 

“What? What about them?” he wonders, hand still on top of his head. 

Mickey makes a face, like Ian just asked the stupidest question. “Really? That what you’re gonna—”

He suddenly stops, eyes widening again, this time fixed on a precise point on Ian’s jaw, left side, so intensely that Ian claps his hand, the one that was in his hair, right on it.

Mickey crosses the distance separating them, reaches out and takes Ian’s hand off, still looking at his jaw. He runs a finger on it, in little circles right on the ridge of the jaw. He’s not soft at all, and after a second he huffs and brusquely turns Ian’s head to the left and runs his finger on the same spot on the right side. Then he turns Ian’s head again to look straight at him, and Ian can see his eyes scanning his own, then very slowly dropping to his nose, mouth, cheeks, getting back up to his hair with a frown. He suddenly releases Ian’s jaw and steps back again, shaking his head.

“You’re not Ian,” he repeats, this time louder and with the hint of a threat in his tone. “He’s got a scar, here,” he adds, showing on his own jaw the first spot he touched on Ian’s. 

“No I don’t.”

“Because you’re not him. I don’t know who you are, but I can recognize my partner and that’s not you.”

Ian doesn’t understand what’s happening. It’s unrealistic. Is he going to wake up? Or is this a joke? Why would Mickey say that? 

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Listen, man, I don’t now what you think you’re doing, but it’s not funny and you can stop, _now_. I don’t care who you are and how you know me and Ian, but you’ve got to leave us the fuck alone, alright? I need to go and get him as soon as possible and I can’t concentrate on it if you follow me around, claiming you’re him. I get it, you both look alike. Fine. Kuddos to you for finding your doppelganger. The thing is, following me claiming you’re him is creepy and I’m not gonna stay calm about it much longer. My advice, if you don’t want to find yourself with broken bones and the security on your back, is to get the hell away from me. Got it?”

And yes, that’s where Ian _gets it_ , and it’s so crazy that it takes him a few seconds to process the thought. This must be a dream. This can’t be true. This is too weird. Because, now, he also sees it: “You’re not Mickey either,” he states, in the almost exact same tone the guy used a minute ago when he told Ian that.

It’s almost obvious. Yeah, Mickey’s hair color, but not quite. His voice, but not quite. His eyes, but not quite. His hands, but— holy shit, his hands. His tattoos. The guy doesn’t have any tattoos.

 

**Jacksonville, FL**

 

It’s not the first time that Mickey’s been locked up into a police holding cell, but it’s not getting any funnier. He still hates it. He hates the plastic mattress he has to sleep on. He hates the faint smell. He hates the noise. He hates the food. And he most certainly hates the cops watching him. But above all, he hates being locked up. Having to ask to go to the bathroom and having someone wait outside the door for him to finish, not seeing the sky until he’s released (which is even worse than in actual prison, where at least you can walk into the yard every day), not having a single distraction to pass the time. 

He also hates that he doesn’t know when Ian’s going to arrive. Police jail ain’t fun, but it’s still better than actual jail. He went there once for a few weeks, about seven years ago, and still has bad dreams about it — and he’s not a pussy, certainly wasn’t back then. Jail is one of the worst things to have happened to him, and he won’t sleep tonight thinking that, if they need more room, tomorrow they’ll throw him there again. He should be released on Monday at most, but one night in actual jail is one fucking night too many. 

So he has that, he has this pending fear of having to go there, even for a few hours. It’s creeping up in his chest, turning in his stomach, the probability. Ian said he’d do as fast as he can, which with a night of sleep and regular breaks should be tomorrow afternoon, yeah, but you never know. He’s got a long road ahead of him, could have a problem on the way, or change his mind and wait for Mickey’s release on Monday. Because if nobody bails Mickey out before that, if they wait until Monday, he’ll have an arraignment and the judge who’ll fix the bail himself, which might be less than the scheduled five hundred dollars the Police by default asked for. Or if Mickey’s lucky, the judge will agree on an OR release and they’ll keep their money.

But Ian won’t do that, right? He knows how much Mickey hated jail and doesn’t want to go there again. And he can bitch all he wants about those five hundreds, they’ll eventually get the bail money back if Mickey goes to his hearings, which he obviously plans to. If Yevgeny doesn’t get his goddamn purple bike, it will be because of the fine Mickey might end up having to pay and the attorney they’ll have to hire to represent Mickey if he can’t come back to Florida for his hearings. It won’t be because of the bail itself, so fuck Ian for saying that. 

Groaning about his whole situation, Mickey closes his eyes and lays his head against the wall. He’s been locked in here for about three hours, according to the clock hanging above the main door, the one leading to the offices, and his ass hurts already for sitting on this thin mattress. How is he supposed to stay here until tomorrow evening without losing his mind? Fuck.

The main door opens and an officer, this Keller guy, enters the room for the regular check up. He looks like he’s barely twenty with his pink cheeks, neatly arranged blond hair and puppy blue eyes and Mickey doesn’t know if he should hate him, or just not like him. He hates the chief, Glass. He only saw her when he got booked, she never entered this room, but once was already too much. She’s a bitch who looked at him like he was a pile of dog shit. But Keller, he’s probably so new that he hasn’t developed this thing that every jail guard gets after a while, that superiority feeling that makes them think the person behind the bars isn’t worth crap. Keller probably still sees them as human beings.

He looks around for a few seconds, standing straight (too straight, too confident, which makes Mickey smile because yeah, that’s what the newbies do before they get actually real confidence or leave for a job that doesn’t require communicating with a bunch of angry inmates every day). Thumbs stuck in his belt, perfect cliché, he starts walking, looking into each cell, making sure nobody causes any disturbance and everybody’s still alive and well. He passes in front of Mickey’s cell and Mickey holds his gaze for a few seconds, until the kid licks his lower lip and his eyes drop to the ground. Mickey half smiles and shakes his head to himself. 

Keller stops in front of the cell next to Mickey’s, as always. Like the guard who had the shift before him, he stops there every time, goes closer to the door, and frowns. Mickey watches him keep his eyes there, probably on Mickey’s neighbor inmate, and pinch his lips into a thin line. He usually stays there for five seconds before carrying on with his watch, but this time he doesn’t move, still frowning. Finally, he licks his lips again and says, “Hey, you okay there?”

Mickey’s so bored that anything happening here that’s not him bruising his beautiful ass on the fucking hard mattress is worth every episode of Firefly. He stands up and walks to his door to have a better view of Keller through the bars. 

There’s not a sound on the other side of Mickey’s cell wall, and Keller keeps frowning. His eyes flip briefly to Mickey when he notices him getting closer, but he doesn’t say anything and stares back at his quiet neighbor. 

“Hey, man,” he says again, a little louder this time. “Are you alright?”

Still no answer. 

“What’s wrong?” Mickey can’t help asking.

For a second, he thinks that Keller will tell him to shut up and mind his own business, but the cop briefly turns to Mickey again and tells him nervously, “He hasn’t moved since last time.”

“Well, maybe he’s sleeping.”

Keller shakes his head, slowly, still looking into the other cell. “I don’t think so. They, uh…” He looks at Mickey again and lowers his voice. “They sedated him.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Really? He was violent or something?”

Keller looks back at the main door, which is open but there’s not a sound outside. He’s probably checking for Glass or someone else, because he’s certainly not supposed to talk about this with an inmate. He shakes his head. “Apparently he had a crisis.”

Mickey shouldn’t care that much, but again, distractions. So he asks, genuinely interested, “What kind of crisis? Drug crisis?”

“No, uh… from what I heard…” he lowers his voice even more. “From what I know, he has bipolar disorder.”

Mickey frowns. “Oh, shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I know what that is, if he’s in a low you may not get anything out of him.”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t drank or eaten anything since he got here last night. He’s just lying there, not moving, and I always have to look long to make sure he’s still breathing.” 

Mickey nods. He knows what that is, had to deal with it with Ian a few times. Not moving, not eating, not talking, except to tell him to leave him alone. 

“Why is he here, if he’s bipolar? Shouldn’t he be where people can take care of him properly?”

Keller shrugs. “I think someone is coming to get him.”

“Because he can’t stay in a cell like that.”

Keller doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at the other guy anymore, his eyes are fixed on Mickey and his head is slightly tilted to the side.

“Why do you care?”

Mickey clenches his jaw. Why _couldn’t_ he care? Because he’s locked up, it means he’s a bad guy without a hint of compassion for others? Shit. “My boyfriend has it, I know how it works.”

Keller frowns. “Your boyfriend has bipolar disorder?”

“Yeah.” He thinks about it for a second, then adds, because really, anything that could take his mind off of his situation is gladly welcomed, “I can talk to him if you want, see if I can get him to eat something or drink water.”

Keller slightly opens his mouth, but stays silent. Then he straightens, recovers his fake confident expression and posture, thumbs back in his belt, and says, with a stronger voice, “I can’t let you out of your cell, inmate.”

Mickey sighs. He was expecting this answer, but still had to try, right? Never hurts. He shrugs and goes back to sit on his bed while Keller continues his tour then leaves the room, closing the main door behind him. 

Mickey can’t help thinking about this guy next to him, attentive for any sound he could make. He pictures him like Ian was, laying on his side, eyes open staring at nothing, hair messy and skin pale as a ghost. Mickey hates that image, but at least he’s not thinking about his potential night in jail anymore. 

 

**Chicago, IL**

 

Mickey has a very hard time processing what’s happening. He’s standing in front of Ian, but it’s not Ian. Except it is. Except it isn’t. 

_Except it is_. The longer he looks at him, the longer he’s convinced of it. But Ian’s hair are much shorter. Ian has this scar he got when he fell while running two years ago. Ian seems older. Ian doesn’t look at him this way.

He notices that the guy’s staring at his hands just before he reaches out at takes one. Mickey tries to jerk off his grasp but _Ian_ holds him tight and looks at it, close. 

“You don’t have your tattoos.”

He erased them. Just kept the F and the hyphen as a reminder, but that’s nothing they could deny him a job for back where he lives now. He’ll probably always regret erasing them, not because it did hurt like a bitch and cost an arm and left behind those faint scars, but because they were part of him and now they’re gone. He did that on the same impulse he got the tattoos, but if he never regretted having them, erasing them is a completely other story. Shit, he probably wouldn’t have had his job with that on his knuckles, but still.

Ian releases his hand and Mickey raises it to rub at his eyebrow.

“So, uh… you’re telling me you’re Ian?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” He lowers his hand between them. “What was written here?”

“U-UP. FUCK on the other one.”

Mickey takes a deep breath. He lets his eyes wander behind Ian while he thinks about it. They’re still in this huge hall, surrounded by people walking fast with their giant suitcases and bags. Families, friends, business men and women, a whole lot of different kind of travelers. Nobody cares about them, nobody’s aware that he just fell into a fucking movie. 

There must be an explanation, something that would make him go “aaah, of course that was it, why didn’t I think of that?” Because he’s lost. He doesn’t know how to react, how to deal with this situation. That’s not something you learn when you grow up, what to do when you meet this guy who claims to be your partner but that’s impossible. What does he do? What does he say? What does he trust? _How does he wake up?_

“So,” Ian says, not looking happier and more confident about it than Mickey is. “You say you’re Mickey, but you’re different. I say I’m Ian but apparently I’m different. Either that’s one fucked up coincidence that we both look like our respective Ian and Mickey, or we actually are our respective Ian and Mickey but then, _what the hell_.” He seems to hesitate, looking around, then shrugs. ”You know what? I guess we’ll just have to find out. Ask me a question only your Ian could know the answer of.” 

Since he doesn’t have anything better in mind, Mickey agrees. He thinks of something, then asks, “What’s in the bottom drawer of my bedside table?” 

Ian frowns. “Your bedside table doesn’t have a single drawer.”

“Yeah it fucking does.”

“It’s just a tiny table, there’s nothing you can put inside because there’s no inside.”

“OK, fine, what now?” Mickey says, getting annoyed again. “You’re not my Ian or what?”

He looks confused. “Wait, just… ask me something else.”

Mickey huffs, but relents. “The first and last name of my mother.” And if the guy knows, it means it’s him. Because nobody knows. He never talks about her to anyone, ever, except with Ian.

“Anya Reback. She had you when she was thirteen, died the day you turned eleven. You don’t like to celebrate your birthday because it reminds you of that. You cried when you turned twenty-five because it made you older than her.”

Mickey’s shocked. That’s more than what he needed, he only asked for her name, but the fact that he knows about the birthdays (even his own sister doesn’t know that) means that it’s him, actually. But how the fuck does he know about his twenty-fifth birthday? He cried, yes, but Ian doesn’t know, he wasn’t there. Mickey was driving alone, had to stop his car next to this giant corn field because his vision was getting blurry. He stayed there for ten minutes, then it was over. He didn’t see Ian for several hours after that, so it’s not like he had red eyes or whatever that could give him away. And he certainly didn’t tell him about it.

Anyway, the rest is true, and _holy fuck_.

“Is that correct?” Ian prompts.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s correct.”

He wipes a slightly shaking hand over his face. 

“My turn then,” Ian says. Mickey almost protests but Ian doesn’t give him the time to even open his mouth. “First time we fucked.”

“What fucking kind of question is that?!”

Ian raises his eyebrows and Mickey groans.

“Fine. You wanted fucker’s gun back, came into my room with a tire iron, woke me up, we fought, we fucked, almost got caught by Terry. Alright?”

“First kiss.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Seriously, now? Wasn’t that enough?”

“First kiss.”

“Fuck off. In the van, in front of this house we were robbing, right before I got shot in the ass.”

Ian bites his lower lip, looking intently at Mickey, then finally nods, “Alright.”

Mickey crosses his arms against his chest. 

“So, any idea what’s happening, maybe?”

“That’s insane, Mickey. You shouldn’t be there. You shouldn’t be dressed like that, talk with that accent, have shorter hair. You should have your knuckle tattoos. You swear you don’t know either? You swear that’s not some kind of sick joke? Because that’s really not funny, fuck, I’m starting to question my mind sanity, don’t do that to me.”

“I swear I don’t know, come on, I’m as lost as you are. I was just on my way to— shit. Wait, one second.”  
Mickey fishes for his phone in his vest and dials the number of Jacksonville’s Sheriff Office — because Ian can’t be here _and_ there, right? He raises a hand to signal Ian not to move while he waits for the police to answer. 

“Jacksonville’s Sheriff Office.”

“Yeah, Mickey Milkovich, can I talk to Ian Gallagher? He’s in lock up.”

He sees Ian, the Ian in front of him, frown. He mouthes to Mickey, _What the fuck?_

“Please wait while I transfer your call to the holding facilities.”

There’s a stupid music, like he was calling some fucking travel agency, but soon someone picks up and he recognizes the young man who called him yesterday evening. “Agent Keller.”

“I’m calling about Ian Gallagher, just want to make sure he’s alright. I wanted him to call me as soon as he woke up, and I didn’t get anything.”

“He’s alright, sir.”

“When was the last time you checked on him?”

“A few minutes ago. He was still asleep, but fine.”

Mickey throws Ian a panicked look. _What. The. Hell. Is. Happening._

“So he’s still there?”

There’s a short silence, then Keller answers, dubiously, “Of course, he’s still here. It’s you who’s supposed to come and get him, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rubs his hand on his mouth. “Listen, uh… I missed my plane, so I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it to Florida today. But I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Alright, sir, but remember that he won’t be here anymore as of tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, fuck. I know. I know. And don’t forget to get him to call me as soon as he wakes up. And you better not sedate him anymore, you hear me? If he’s not walking and talking when I get here, I swear I’ll get you fired, Agent Keller. And believe me, I can.”

Not bothering to listen to his answer, Mickey hangs up. He turns to Ian, who’s even more confused than before. “What was that?”

“Apparently you’re both here and in Florida.” 

Ian huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s funny, because you’re in Florida too. You called me this morning, told me you got arrested. You’re supposed to be in a police holding cell in Jacksonville.

Mickey closes his eyes and exhales deeply. This is getting crazier by the minute. “That’s where you are too.”

They stay there, looking at each other in disbelief. Mickey’s so fucking tired.

“So, what?” Ian finally says, shrugging. “We’re both in Illinois and Florida, is that it? Is there two versions of you, and two versions of me, one of each here, and one of each there?”

Mickey doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

“You know what? I’m going to Jacksonville too. You can come with me.”

Mickey blinks. “What?”

“You don’t know how to get there, do you? Lost your ticket or some shit, that’s what you were telling the employee earlier, I heard you. I’m driving to Jacksonville now, if you want to join me. You can pay for half the gas.”

“I don’t have any money on me.”

“Then don’t pay for the gas, whatever.”

Mickey thinks about it for a moment. That’s the only solution, isn’t it? He can’t take the plane. He was planning on taking a taxi he could send the fee to later, some companies accept that, but two days in a taxi isn’t his favorite thing in the world. At least, here, it’s free, and if they drive in turn they’ll get there early tomorrow. Shit, that’s insane, getting in a car with Ian to go get Ian. He laughs at the absurdity of it, still not believing it. But what other choice does he have, that doesn’t involve a taxi?

“Yeah,” he says. “Fine. Let’s go.”

 

**Jacksonville, FL**

 

Officer Keller doesn’t come back for another twenty minutes, and when he does Mickey is gotten so bored that he started doing sit-ups on his mattress. Because why the fuck not. He stays down when Keller walks past the cells, not bothering to look at him when he reaches his, but he listens closely as he stops in front of the next one. He didn’t hear anything from his neighbor inmate, and wants to know if something about him has changed.

Apparently, the situation’s still the same. Keller asks him again is he’s okay, but doesn’t get an answer. Then after what seems like a very long time, Mickey hears something tap on the bars of his door. Hands under his head, still laying on the mattress, he lowers his eyes and sees Keller looking at him. 

“Hey, it’s Mickey, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think you could get him to talk or drink?”

Mickey sits up, eyebrows raised high in surprise. “You want me to try?”

Keller doesn’t seem comfortable with that, so Mickey stands up and walks closer to him. Keller takes a step back, but Mickey doesn’t mind. He tries to reassure him by putting on his nicer expression. 

“I could try, had to do it a few times with my boyfriend.”

Keller bites his lower lip, and Mickey knows what’s going on in his mind. He wants to hear the guy say he’s okay, or a least see him drink something, and Mickey could maybe help with that since he claims he’s familiar with the situation. But it means letting Mickey out for something other than release, interrogation or bathroom, which is strictly forbidden, and if Glass comes to know he did that Keller would probably be fucked. Mikey hasn’t seen her in here, she stays in the offices, the only people he saw were Keller and some other officer who had the previous shift earlier this morning. Still, that’s a risk he’d be an idiot to take. Any other officer wouldn’t even consider the possibility, and Mickey knows that Keller does because he’s new, and the job hasn’t yet taken away his concerns for his inmates. He’s probably feeling like a guardian with values and principles, one of which being that, under his watch, no inmate will get severely dehydrated. 

Mickey sighs. “Maybe he’ll respond to you if you go into his cell and kneel next to him, instead of talking through the bars. That’s not the best way to get to someone in this situation.”

Keller briefly glances at the other cell, even more uncomfortable, and Mickey perfectly knows what keeps him for doing this.

“You’re afraid he’ll become violent again and hurt you,” he states with a lopsided smile. Seeing the officer’s cheeks flush pink, he knows he’s right. “Alright, let _me_ try, then. It’s better than nothing, right?”

Keller hesitates for what seems like an eternity, then finally says, “No funny business?”

Mickey frowns. “No, no funny business. I’ll just talk to him, like I would do with my boyfriend.”

Keller inhales deeply. “Alright, five minutes, and I’m cuffing you.”

“Hey, what if he actually becomes violent? How am I defending myself with cuffs on?”

Keller shrugs then goes to close the main door, like they do when they take someone to the bathroom. He comes back to Mickey’s door and says, “Two steps back, hands raised in front of you.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but relents, and Keller opens his door and handcuffs him. He grips Mickey’s arm and brings him to the other man’s cell, opens the door, pushes Mickey inside and locks him in. 

Mickey’s eyes immediately fall on the man laying on the cell’s bed. The guy’s wrapped in a woolen blanket, head turned to the wall and barely visible. On the floor, there’s a plastic cup full of water and a tray with untouched mashed potatoes, a bowl a soup and a slice of bread. Mickey briefly wonders if it was last night’s food or what they gave him for breakfast. 

“His name’s Ian,” Keller says.

Mickey nods, then approaches the bed and squats down next to the guy’s head, briefly smiling to himself because, yeah, he’s a redhead, named Ian, and has bipolar. What a coincidence, right? 

Talking softly, gently, just like he would do with his own Ian, he says, “Hey, man.”

To his surprise, because he really didn’t think he’d get a reaction out of him in those five minutes Keller gave him, the guy slowly turns his head to look at Mickey. And _holy shit_ , it’s him, it’s Ian. His Ian. Except it can’t be, because he’s been here since last night (according to Keller), and Mickey got Ian on the phone three hours ago. So that’s not him, but that’s his face, his hair color, his nose, his parted lips, his green eyes slowly blinking at him.

“Mickey?”

And that’s his raspy whispering voice, too.

Mickey stares at him, dumbfounded, then tries to recover a straight face because Keller is looking. He can see Ian turning under the blanket to face him completely, slowly like every movement was requiring every last bit of energy he has in him. “Are we going home?” he asks in that same weak voice, and Mickey bites his tongue hard to keep from freaking out. That’s impossible. He can’t be here, it can’t be him.

“We’re not going home, Ian,” he manages to say. 

He hears Keller shuffle by the door, and raises his eyes at him. He mouthes _Water_ while glancing at the cup with insistent eyes, and something inside Mickey tells him to obey the officer. He has to do what he came here to do, he’ll have time to think about what’s happening later. Because if he doesn’t make him drink now, if he doesn’t pretend everything is normal, then he might not be able to come in here again after that. 

Mickey leans again towards Ian, his head close enough so he can talk quietly and still be heard by him. He barely resists the urge to reach out with his hand and stroke the side of Ian’s face.

“But I’m staying here with you, in the next cell, alright? Just behind that wall. I’m with you.”

Ian nods, his eyes closing. Mickey hesitates for a seconds, then puts a hand on his shoulder. It isn’t easy with the handcuffs on, but he needs that contact.

“Hey, hey, stay with me. Ian, stay with me.”

Ian opens his eyes again and looks at Mickey. He seems exhausted and completely out of it. Mickey reaches out behind him, takes the cup of water and brings it to him. 

“I need you to drink a little bit, alright?”

Ian doesn’t move for a moment, still staring at Mickey, then he slowly nods and Mickey lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. You’ll have to sit up for that, alright? Just to drink, then you can lie back down if you want to.”

Ian nods again and Mickey puts the cup on the ground in order to help him sit up on his mattress. He takes the cup back and hands it to Ian, who takes it and drinks of it, still very slowly. He takes about two gulps, but that’s way better than nothing and when he gives Mickey the cup back, he takes it and puts it away. Ian still stares at him, in a way that’s starting to make Mickey feel a little uncomfortable. Then he says, very quietly, “You’re not real.”

Mickey swallows hard. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re from the past. You’re from my memories.” He reaches out and slowly runs a hand into Mickey’s hair, then on his cheek, thumb stroking the skin. From the corner of his eye, Mickey can see Keller shuffle again. “You’re my old Mickey, I love my old Mickey,” Ian murmurs in this low and sleepy voice. He closes his eyes again and lies down on the bed. 

Mickey watches him for a few seconds go back to sleep, then Keller clears his throat and Mickey stands up and walks to him. “He drank some water, not much but it’s better than nothing.”

Keller nods, then opens the door and grips Mickey’s arm again to bring him back to his own cell. “At least he’s moving,” he says when he closes Mickey’s door, handcuffs hanging back on his belt. 

“Yeah, I think it’s just the sedatives.”

Keller nods. “Well, uh… good to know.”

He seems to hesitate a moment, and Mickey wonders if he wants to thank him, but then he nods once more and leaves. Just like that, Mickey’s in his cell, alone again, this time wondering what the fuck just happened. 

There’s not a sound on the other side of the wall.

 

**Chicago, IL**  
_1,082 miles to go_

 

“Where did you get that car?” Mickey asks bluntly when Ian reaches to opens the door if his old worn out Toyota. Ian stills, hand on the handle, frowning confusedly at Mickey from above the dirty roof. 

“What?”

“The car, where does it come from?”

Ian’s frown deepens. “Well, it’s mine, you know that.”

Mickey looks up at him like he was speaking nonsense. “No, I don’t _know_ that. You never had your own car, you hate to drive.”

“Yeah, but I need it. And what the fuck, _I never had my own car_? Where does that come from?”

Mickey opens his mouth, then closes it, shakes his head and raises his hands.

“Okay, okay, whatever. This your dumpster of a car? Fine. As long as it’s moving. Let’s go.”

Ian, still frowning, opens his door and sits down behind the wheel. He buckles up, waits for Mickey to do the same, then turns on the ignition and starts driving to exit the underground parking lot. “Hey, can you check in the glove box please? I printed the itinerary, I’m gonna need you to copilot.”

“You could have taken the GPS.”

“I don’t have a GPS.”

“What about the one in my car?”

“You don’t fucking have a GPS in your car.”

“Of course I have a—”

Ian brusquely hits the brakes and it’s a good thing there’s nobody following them, because they would have add another nice souvenir to Ian’s rear bumper. Mickey swears loudly, almost hitting the dashboard with his forehead. Yeah, the seatbelts aren’t as good as they used to be. When the car is fully stopped, he turns to Ian and glares at him furiously. “What the hell, man?!”

“Sorry,” Ian says, gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles are partly white. He starts the car again and parks it on the side of the road, where he won’t induce an accident if another car comes by. He takes two deep breaths, then turns to Mickey and says, as calmly as he can, “You have to stop with that.”

“Uh?” Mickey frowns, his chest still heaving from the rush of adrenaline.

“You have to stop thinking that you know better than me what I have or don’t have. It’s like with the bedside table: yours has drawers, mine doesn’t.”

Mickey is still frowning, apparently trying to figure out what Ian is saying — and Ian has to admit, himself doesn’t really understand. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to gather his thought, form an idea that his rational mind has a hard time to process.

“You have a GPS, my Mickey doesn’t. I have a car, your Ian doesn’t.”

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“I know, fuck— I know, alright? But this is all we have. The situation is completely unrealistic, that’s fucked up. But it’s all we’ve got, Mickey. What the other says. You’re telling the truth, I’m telling the truth, I think we just gotta admit that your truth is different than mine.”

Mickey looks away, running a hand in his — too short — hair. “But you’re Ian, right?”

“Yeah. But not yours. Your Ian is in Florida, just like my Mickey. You’re not my Mickey. You’re another Mickey, a Mickey who owns a GPS, erased his tattoos and wears a classy coat. You’re different.”

Mickey licks his lips. He looks through the window for a few seconds, then back at Ian. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he says again, quietly.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Shit,” he exhales. He rubs a hand down his face, and it’s so _Mickey_ that Ian has to close his eyes again to keep in mind what he just said. _Not my Mickey_.

“You okay?”

He can see him swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

Ian turns to face the wheel again, but he doesn’t start the car. He stays there, in silence, while they both try to process their own thoughts. 

Finally, Mickey says, in a flat voice, “You don’t even live in Eugene, do you? In Oregon.”

Ian looks at him again, eyebrows raised. “No. I’m from here. You do, though? Live in Eugene?”

“Yeah. Left Chicago ‘bout ten years ago.”

Ian nods to himself. Right. “So, we definitely don’t have the same life.”

“I guess not.”

“Maybe… maybe, we should just think of it—” he waves between them “—as two strangers on a road trip to Florida to get their respective boyfriends out of jail. That’s what we are, after all, we’re strangers.”

From the corner of the eye, he can see Mickey frown, his gaze fixed on the glove box. He has a sudden doubt and asks, a small rush of adrenaline flooding his chest, “You’re together, right?”

Mickey raises his head to look at him. “Uh?”

“You and Ian, your Ian. You had the same first fuck, the same first kiss as me and my Mickey. So you’re together, right? You’re still together?”

Mickey blinks. “Yeah, yeah, we’re still together.”

Ian feels relief relax his whole body. The idea that they might not be together anymore, even in some other version of their life, is really not a happy one. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty six.” 

Mickey frowns. “Really?”

“Yeah, why? Not the same timeline? Shit, don’t tell me you come from the future.”

“No, no, fuck. No. It fits, Ian’s twenty-six too. I’m twenty-eight. It’s just… you seem younger. It’s weird. You— you remind me more of him a few years ago than of him now.”

They lock eyes for a few seconds, then Ian nods pensively and looks away. “You look a bit older, too. Does time move slower in Eugene than in Chicago?”

Mickey huffs a humorless laugh. “That must be it.”

There’s another uncomfortable silence, then Ian grips the wheel again with his left hand, the right one reaching for the key in the ignition. “So, we’re just strangers carpooling for one thousand miles then?”

Mickey nods silently again, looking back through the window. 

“Alright,” Ian says, to himself more than to Mickey. 

There’s almost nobody on the road, they have it all for themselves. It’s almost eleven, the sun’s up, reflecting in the buildings and illuminating the road of its bright light. The weather’s beautiful and it’s barely the beginning of spring. 

“How are you not freaking out?” Mickey says suddenly, after a minute of quiet driving.

Ian chuckles nervously. “Oh, I am. Inside. I’m freaking out, I’m definitely freaking out. But there’s a ninety percent chance that it’s just a dream though, so that’s helping me a lot. Not screaming hysterically, you know. Not punching you in the face. Actually believing you.”

“Right.”

“But there’s also this other ten percent probability that it’s reality, that it’s actually happening, like some kind of glitch in the matrix.” He thinks about it some more, then adds, “I guess I just gotta roll with it. You know… Enjoy the opportunity of discovering what my life would have been outside of Chicago. ” He throws a rapid look at Mickey, a lopsided smile on his face. “It’s probably gonna be a very interesting weekend.”

**

They don’t talk for a long time, except to choose the road to take. Mickey insists on going through Terre Haute while Ian assures him that going by Indianapolis is way better. They end up following Ian’s initial directions, mostly because that’s the itinerary on the printed maps, plus Ian’s the one driving at the moment so Mickey can “just shut up and enjoy the free ride, for fuck’s sake.” 

They immediately agree on going around Chicago instead of driving through the city though. Less direct maybe, but way faster. Ian notices Mickey staring at what he can see of the city from the highway they’re on, which is close to nothing at all. About ten minutes on the highway, he licks his lips then throws a brief look at him. 

“Missing Illinois, Mick?”

Mickey snaps out of his reverie and glares at Ian.

“Don’t call me that.”

Ian frowns. “I can’t call you ‘Mick’? Ain’t it how I call you?”

“Ian calls me that. You’re just a stranger, remember?”

Mickey’s tone is a bit dry and Ian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from arguing. Yeah, they’re strangers. No _Mick_ , then. Right.

There’s an uncomfortable silence, until Mickey sighs and mumbles, “I’m not missing Illinois.”

Ian nods.

“It’s been a long time, is all. It’s weird being here, I would have loved not having to leave the airport.”

“Good thing we’re not going through the city then, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

They stay silent for a minute more, then Ian asks another question, finally surrendering to his curiosity, wanting to know about him, about them. The life of the other Ian. He asks, “It means you all went to Oregon, then? Since you have never bothered to come back. The whole family? Nobody left here?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Well yeah, some are still here. I don’t visit them, though. They do travel to Oregon, or we meet at somebody else’s in between, or Ian comes here alone.”

“Why not you?”

He shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t know, man. I don’t want to, I guess.”

Ian hums, not buying Mickey’s dismissive tone. He doesn’t push it, though. “Only Gallaghers in Chicago then? I’m sure you’d move your ass down here for a Milkovich.”

Mickey huffs a laugh. “Maybe. For a brother or a sister. Brave the neighborhood, good old Canaryville.”

“It changed a lot. Gentrification and all that shit.”

“Gentrification, huh? When did _that_ happen?”

Ian thinks for a moment, trying to remember when it started. It’s been a fucking long time. When did Mickey say he left Chicago again? “I remember that lesbian couple wanting us to take down our pool. I was high on lithium, not reacting well. It’s a bit blurry. Anyway, I guess it means I was seventeen back then.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seventeen? What were you doing on lithium at seventeen?”

“Uh… Bipolar?” Ian gives Mickey a rapid look. “Rings a bell?”

“Seventeen’s early though. Shit.”

Something curls inside Ian’s stomach. “Why do you say that?”

“That’s just— I don’t know. Ian was twenty-one when he had his first episode.”

The thing in Ian’s stomach hurts a bit and he tries to ignore it. Twenty-one? Fuck. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just nods and stares ahead, at the road, the signs, the few cars he’s following, shiny under the hardening sun. 

Twenty-fucking-one. 

Probably noticing his discomfort, Mickey gets back on the previous subject. “Fiona told me that it’s better, safer and stuff. Ian did too, he sees it when he goes there. Didn’t really believe them, though.”

“Well,” Ian responds. “It’s not North Side. It’s still kinda shitty, but you know… shitty with a couple of kid-friendly parks, which is a nice improvement.” 

“Ah,” Mickey says. “A place for little Liam to ride a swing without getting mugged or stung by a junkie’s old syringe dropped on the floor.”

Ian laughs. “Liam’s thirteen, not so little anymore. Well I don’t know about the syringes, seeing what happens there when the sun goes down, but it’s clearly good to not have to bring a weapon with you when you take your kid to the playground.”

The corners of Mickey’s mouth twitch in the beginning of a smile.

“So Fiona’s still there, then?”

“Yeah. Still in the old Gallagher house.”

“Who else is there?”

“Liam, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That’s it? Just the both of them?”

“Well, yeah. Lip and Debbie are not very far, though. They’re in Nebraska. And Carl’s with us in Eugene.”

Ian frowns. “That’s weird. I never thought they’d leave. I mean, yeah, everybody ended up leaving the house, it’s just Fiona and Liam there now, too. And Carl, when he gets kicked out of wherever he stays at. But him and Debs and Lip, they’re not far. They’re all in Illinois.”

He can’t imagine a life in which the Gallagher aren’t all in the same State. It’s too strange, it’s not like them. Sure, they don’t always get along well, it’s not like it used to be, there are tensions and stuff. Many tensions, to be honest. But they’re still near each other. They’re still together, physically together. Are the tensions so much worse in his other self’s life that they all needed to be States away from each other? Is that three clans of two instead of Ian’s one clan of six? Oh, shit. That’s making him so sad right now. 

“Don’t worry, Gallagher,” Mickey snorts like he knows exactly what Ian’s thinking. “They all still can’t function without one another, it’s like they were still living together. Not a day without Ian getting or sending a call or a message of any kind. They talk more than if they were living in the same house, it’s fucking exhausting sometimes.”

Ah. It’s definitely different than what’s going on for him. Sure, he lives ten minutes away from his siblings, but he can spend weeks without talking to either one of them. In Mickey’s life, it’s like they’re compensating the physical distance by being emotionally closer. They need that more than Ian does, probably. In his, they know they’re a few miles away, available, there. No need to call, no need to message much. It’s alright. Both are alright. Still, it’s… different. 

“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” he mumbles.  
Mickey shrugs. He’s back looking through the window and for a very long time after that, nobody says another word. Ian has a fuckton of questions, but he’s not sure he likes the answers to the ones he asked so far, so he decides to keep them for later, maybe. There’s time. 

Now, he reaches out and turns on the radio. A random pop song blurts out of the low quality speakers. Mickey snorts quietly at it, and Ian knows that he probably doesn’t like the song, but he keeps it that way. When it’s his turn driving, _maybe_ he’ll choose something he likes better. 

**

They stop at a gas station to fill the tank and buy disgusting sandwiches that they eat in the almost empty parking lot, sitting on the warm hood of the Toyota. 

“Want me to drive?” Mickey asks in between two bites. 

“Nah man, it’s okay. In a few hours.”

“Alright.”

They eat in silence, Mickey looking ahead, Ian trying not to stare too much at the other man’s knuckles. It’s really strange to see only the ‘K’ and the hyphen there, it helps him think of Mickey as a stranger and not as his long time boyfriend. Crazy how a bit of ink can change how you see someone. 

After a long moment of hesitation, he asks, “How did I react when you erased them?”

Mickey turns confused eyes at him and Ian nods towards his hands. Mickey’s gaze drops on them, still confused, until he realizes what Ian asks. “Oh.” He raises his gaze to Ian, who’s waiting for an answer with a frown. “Badly,” Mickey simply says.

Since he doesn’t seem about to explain his answer, Ian prompts, “Badly how?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t tell him at first. It took four sessions to get rid of it, and after the first one he asked me why my knuckles were so red. I told him, he told me to not do it, I refused, we fought, he didn’t talk to me for two days straight. Like he had a say over what I do to my body.”

“Well—” Ian mumbles, but Mickey sends him a warning glare.

“ _Any-fucking-way_ , I still went to every one of my sessions and ta-dah.”

“That’s it? I didn’t talk to you for two days, then it was alright?”

Mickey smirks. “Not exactly. You— _he_. He cried, somewhere between the third and the fourth session, when there was almost nothing left. He fucking cried over my fucking knuckle tattoos.”

Ian purses his lips into a thin line and looks away. Yeah, he would probably cry too if his Mickey erased them, dammit. They’re just so important to him, he can’t even believe how they weren’t as important to the guy sitting next to him right now. That’s beyond him, how he could do that and think he’d get away with it like that. You don’t mess with Mickey’s FUCK-U-UP. 

Mickey looks at him for a second, then snorts and shakes his head, taking another bite of his sandwich. “I assume your Mickey still has his, then.”

“Of course he still does.”

“Doesn’t it bother him to find a decent job?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Mickey hums. “Good for him, then.”

They stay in silence for another moment. The sun’s warming Ian’s face and he closes his eyes, angling his face towards the light. There’s nothing like early spring. 

“Does he like it?” Mickey suddenly asks. “To still be in Chicago. Doesn’t he want to get out?”

Ian slowly opens his eyes, half a smile on his face, and lowers them to look at a hesitant Mickey. “Why wouldn’t he like it?”

“I know I wouldn’t.”

“Well you’re different, aren’t you? He wouldn’t like your coat, man, yet you have it on you. Chicago’s fine, we have our life there, together.” Mickey’s still doubtfully frowning at him, so Ian sighs and rubs his hands on his thighs to get rid of the crumbs that fell there. He adds, “We’re really good, and I don’t think you’d want to live anywhere else, not right now anyway. We’ve got everything there, the jobs, the apartment, the family, and Yevgeny’s school, you know…”

Mickey snorts. “Who’s that, some niece or nephew I don’t know about?”

“Who?” Ian asks. 

Mickey frowns. “Uh… Yev-something. You just talked about him, man. Or her. I mean what kind of name is that?”

Ian’s freezes. “Yevgeny? You’re asking me who’s Yevgeny?”

That can’t be right. He’s their son. He’s their child. He’s the most important person in Mickey’s life, in Ian’s life. He’s everything, and Mickey doesn’t even know his name. _That can’t be right_.

But the guy nods, apparently wondering what got Ian so flustered.

“Please,” Ian says in a voice he doesn’t recognize. “Please tell me it’s because you gave him another name.”

Mickey gives him a deeply and sincerely contrite look, a look that says exactly what Ian doesn’t want to know. Ian’s breath hitches and he straightens off the hood of the Toyota, heart painfully falling into his stomach. He walks a few steps ahead, a hand rubbing down his face, trying to ignore the stinging in the back of his throat. _That’s okay_ , he tries to convince himself. _That’s okay, that’s not me, that’s someone else, that’s okay_. It doesn’t work. It’s still Ian and Mickey without Yevgeny, and it feels wrong, it feels incredibly wrong, the idea of the little boy not existing, not being a part of the world. _But he is. He is part of the world. He’s there, he’s in Chicago, he’s at Svetlana’s, he’s there._

Doesn’t fucking work. 

**

Mickey doesn’t move from the hood of the car. He has his hands on his laps, gripping the plastic that contained a triangle sandwich a moment ago. The wrapping is now rolled up in a tight ball between both of Mickey’s palms, and he clenches them harder while staring at a distressed Gallagher. The guy’s looking away, arms tightly folded like some kind of protection, lips pursed in a thin line. He reminds Mickey of that day Ian — his Ian — got his diagnosis. Similar. Mickey sighs heavily.

“Look, man,” he says after a while. “That’s how it is, isn’t it? You’ve got stuff I don’t, I’ve got stuff you don’t. You said it yourself. Different lives.”

Ian doesn’t move, there’s no sign that he heard Mickey. But it’s quiet, there’s nobody around them, the only sounds are from the highway back there and the wind in the foliage, so he must have. Mickey stands up, but stays close to the car.

“The fact that I don’t have a kid doesn’t mean anything, alright? I know— I know Ian’s always wanted kids, but I’ve never— fuck. Circumstances, man. They got me in Eugene, they got you Yevgeny. You’re fine with a kid, your Mickey is probably too; I’m very fine without one, and so is Ian.”

Finally, Ian’s looking at him, and there’s something dark in the way he frowns. “Circumstances,” he repeats lowly. “Fucking circumstances.”

Mickey licks his lips and nods. “Yeah.”

Ian’s staring at him strangely, wickedly, and it’s making Mickey very uncomfortable. He tries to lighten the mood a little, so he takes a step towards the other man and says with half a smile, “Why don’t you tell me about him? I’d like that, know about your kid. How old is he?”

It somehow makes it worse, because after a few seconds of staring, Ian’s mouth curls in a sneer that Mickey’s only seen on this face in the worst moments. Ian fully turns to face Mickey, who has to fight to keep his artificial little smile on. “So you never got raped?” Ian says, and Mickey’s face falls completely.

The realization works into him slowly, like he was trying to keep it at bay, but he can’t. It’s there, suddenly, what he buried in the deepest corner of his memory, what he tried to ignore, what he ran away from. The rape, the Russian whore, the pregnancy, the wedding. It’s been ten years of not knowing and not wanting to know, of pretending not to care, of managing to get past what happened and the consequences it entailed. He did it, he did it for ten years, it was all in the past, no place for it in his present, no place in his future. Just the terrifying memory of an atrocious moment followed by a few words. _She’s pregnant. You’re the father. You’ll marry her._ He never wanted to know more, because if he didn’t know more then maybe it didn’t even happen, or maybe it stopped there, where he left it. Pregnant, that’s all. Just words. Nothing more. 

No baby.

No baby.

Fuck.

Ian and Mickey stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, until Ian snickers and turns around again. “So it happened to you too.”

He can’t answer, he can’t produce a single word. It’s like hell fell on him all over again in the form of a name, _Yevgeny_ , adding to his memories ten times more substance, filling ten years with a potential child. It’s like the thing he stopped when they ran away came back to life in fast forward like a movie that got frozen in time and catches up by unwrapping a ten year long story in ten seconds. Suddenly, the baby’s born, he has a name, he grows up, goes to school. Just like that, the Russian whore is no more pregnant and Mickey may have a son. It makes him want to throw up.

“Were you seventeen?” Ian asks, tilting his head. “Did you father come home to find you being fucked in the ass by another boy? Did he pistol-whip you—

“You shut the fuck up,” Mickey says in a low and heavy voice. 

“—did he force you to fuck her—” Ian continues, stepping forward, voice rising, eyes crazy. 

“Stop that,” Mickey says louder.

“— _did she get fucking pregnant?_ ” Ian shouts. 

“ _Fuck you! Fuck you!_ ” 

Mickey’s doesn’t know what happens exactly, but two seconds later his knuckles hurt like a bitch and Ian’s falling on the floor, hand clenching at his jaw where there’s no scar. Heaving, Mickey flexes his fingers while watching him get his bearings back, slowly stand up again, drop his hand. The left side of his face is getting redder by the second and Mickey’s so full of rage, he doesn’t even care a little. 

Ian comes closer, closer, closer, until his face is inches away from Mickey’s and they can feel each other’s ragged breath on their skins. He pushes a finger in Mickey’s chest but Mickey doesn’t move away, he just tries not to punch him again. “Then what?” Ian asks lowly.

Mickey’s breathing too hard to be able to answer properly, but Ian waits. He doesn’t move an inch, looks at Mickey in the eyes, and waits for him to talk. Finally, Mickey manages to open his mouth and produce a voice he doesn’t like. “I left.”

Ian winces and backs off, allowing Mickey to deflate a little. Ian shakes his head, frowning. “You left?”

“Of course I left. You wanted— _shit!_ ” Mickey growls. He raises his hands to rub at his eyes, mentally slapping himself to get his bearings back. _That’s not Ian_ , he tells himself. _That’s not Ian, that’s not Ian, that’s not Ian_. He drops his hands and looks back up at the other man. “ _He_ wanted me to not marry her. He told me to not do it.”

Suddenly, Ian’s more confused than angry. He starts, “Yeah, but…” before stopping completely, eyes going wide, lips parting, like he just had some crazy realization. “You listened. You didn’t marry her,” he says flatly. He turns around again and starts walking back and forth, running a hand through his hair. “That’s it. That’s what made the difference.”

Mickey pulls a tired face, not understanding a thing of what’s going on in the other man’s head. “What?”

“You listened to me. Right before the ceremony, when I talked to you. You actually listened to me. You ran away.”

“We both did. Ian and I. We left together.”

“That’s… fuck. But— how? Why did you listen? Why did you _not_ then? In my version of things, why did you not? Why did you get married?”

Mickey has to sit back down on the hood of the car. “He did, uh? Mickey. He obeyed his father. Married the whore. Got the kid. But I didn’t want to.”

Ian’s quiet, now. He looks tired. Mickey feels tired. That’s just so fucked up, all of this, and Mickey’s getting sick of it. If it’s a dream, he wants to wake up. If it’s the universe playing with him, he wants out. It’s not funny. It’s not fine. It’s mad and wrong. 

“You didn’t want to either, but you were scared,” Ian finally says. “You thought it was the only way.”

“It wasn’t, though.”

Ian bites his bottom lip. “I know,” he says, shakily. “I knew it then. I see it now. We could have left, be happy somewhere else, just the two of us.”

Mickey nods, unable to talk. 

“Were we happy?” Ian asks, eyes huge and shiny, in this desperate voice he has when the answer is live or die. “After we left?” 

Mickey nods again. Yeah. They were fucking happy. 

Tears fall down Ian’s cheeks and he huffs a laugh, blinking away. It’s hard to tell if Mickey’s answer pleases him or not. “Fuck.” He sits down next to Mickey on the hood of the car and they both silently look at their own hands. “We could have left,” Ian murmurs after a while. “But we wouldn’t have had Yevgeny.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, almost doesn’t breathe. 

“He’s the most amazing kid, you know. You love him so much.”

“Don’t,” Mickey says in a strangled voice. 

Ian turns his head, and Mickey takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to affront his wondering gaze.

“Don’t say I love him. I don’t, I don’t even know him. That’s not me you’re talking about. That’s someone else, some other Mickey. Stop saying ‘I’ when you talk about Ian and stop saying ‘you’ when you talk about Mickey, because we’re not them.”

Ian looks away, breathing a soft and shaky laugh. “Right.”

They don’t talk for another long moment, both listening to their surroundings, deep in their own thoughts, until Mickey murmurs, “I don’t know what happened after we left, Ian and I. Fiona told us a while later that she disappeared shortly after that. The whore.”

“Svetlana.”

“They don’t know either what happened with her, or with the child. If she kept it. If she’s still alive. The Gallaghers don’t know anything. Mandy doesn’t know anything. My brothers don’t know anything. My father was sent back to prison before she left, and he didn’t say a word about her before he died. Not that any of us know of.” Mickey raises his head towards the sun. “I don’t want to know though. It’s all Ian, he’s the one who asked, but he didn’t look any further so we don’t know where she is, where the kid is. I didn’t know it was a boy.” His voice breaks and he buries the heels of his hands in his eyes. “I try not to think about it and usually I can. But when I do, I… I hate them so much. The three of them, my father, the whore, the baby. The three of them. I hate the baby.”

“It’s not his fault,” Ian says, so quietly that Mickey almost doesn’t hear. 

It takes him a few seconds to manage an answer. “I know. Rationally, I know. But it’s in my guts. He almost ruined my life. Created by a rape. If he was even mine.”

Ian nods slowly, like he understands. 

“Still,” Mickey continues, unable to stop even though his voice is shaking. “Sometimes… rarely, but sometimes, I also wonder where it— where _he_ is, if he’s born, what he looks like, if he’s with the Russian, if he has a decent life. I was wondering if he was a boy or a girl. I think, ‘He must be nine by now, nine is big.’ But I don’t even know if he’s ever been alive.”

He hears Ian huff darkly. “Well. That’s, uh…”

Ian doesn’t end his sentence, and Mickey doesn’t try to guess what he wanted to say. Another silence stands between them, only broken by Ian quietly muttering a curse or two, until he actually talks again and somehow, this time, Mickey knows exactly what he’s about to hear. 

“He looks a lot like you,” Ian says, and Mickey wants to throw up again.

He clenches his eyes shut, trying to repress the nausea. “No. Shit. No, please, don’t do that. Don’t tell me about him, I don’t want to know.”

“But you said—”

“I said I _wondered_. Not that I wanted the answers. I don’t want them.”

“Alright.”

Mickey takes a deep breath, then stands off the hood of the Toyota and walks around the car to reach the passenger door. “Let’s go, Gallagher. Ian’s waiting for me.”


End file.
